Thursday, March 31, 2016

The ditch


In my room, I am free
not searching for any key.

A word in my heart
speaks of a thousand years.

The winds come looking for me
through the line of light below the door
I did shut it close.

Now no more

Still I am in the same room,
on the same floor under the same roof,
I welcome sands and dusts,
they hit and caress my face
I smelt water, sensed it coming with them,
every single day I chased my shadow
unknowingly, overlooking my self
just as the borrowed breaths
through my inert breathing
ran after me
fleecing the treacherous years
holing my holed body.

But I am out of the chase.

A word in my heart
speaks of a thousand years.

Friday, March 25, 2016

The buried pumpkin
















Mom went to Bangladesh, as an Indian, once a refugee.
With animated street view, she found the house,
and the stable garden with her stories.
Huge backyard where she’d play with her siblings, friends.

Divorced countries now. Separated, yet the same without ends.
She was welcomed by the relatively new inmates. Just like them.

At the end of the day well spent, what memento would you like
from your house? She pointed at a golden pumpkin lying on the ground.
She remembered her mother caressing her bruised knee
When she fell off from that banyan tree, standing there, still there
Unmistakably there
She carefully took the vegetable.
Her head moist, bent.
Times flashed, times changed.
She held the uprooted pumpkin in her arms.
Held it gently in her palms
Like a child, brought it home; to Kolkata, a sliced Bengal
In her words, as she’d recall.

We were thrilled to see the cute-looking guest from Bangladesh.
Ah! Today’s lunch! We thought.
But we didn’t say a word
When we saw her burying it in her favourite inseparable space,
She calls her kitchen garden.


My mom went to her hometown in Bangladesh, years after the partition and brought a pumpkin she couldn't eat. It was there with us for long until she buried it in the kitchen garden, from where grew many pumpkins, without inhibition. 

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Heaven on earth - Hyderabad ZINDABAD















Hyderabad - a cosmopolitan city, with a mélange of culture,
A modern- ancient charm, with Charminar its signature.

With loving and lively hospitality, wealth and grace,
It offers bonhomie and warmth to people of every race.

A temple and a mosque standing side by side
Speak of peace, with the unique Indian pride.

Ladbazaar’s colorful music, those bangles’ “chhan chhan!”
Steals the heart of every lady and her gentleman!

In the winding lanes, the craftsmen of jewels
Of stones and pearls sell exquisite ornaments

From lacquer ware of vases to Ikat weaving,
Or gods and goddesses in fine wood carving

From bidriware, bangles to Hyderabadi biriyani
From Banjara women’s mirror work to chai Irani

It offers delightful places, to curious sight-seeing firangis
And also to those fun-loving shop-addict Hindustanis

If you want to taste the modern IT glitterati,
You must frequent our fashionable HiTech city!

With roads posh and wide and jaw-dropping malls,
World-class buildings with unending wherewithal!

Metro is soon to whistle on the streets…
Commuting fast in style will also be at ease!

The lingo of Hyderabad has a very special touch,
 Dakkani is a mix of many a beautiful tongue!

Mushairas and Mehfils that sing in the heart
Of Hyderabadi culture are an essential part

The poetic words of Wali, Makhdoom and Areeb
Are pillars that strengthen the Deccani Tehzeeb!

And Sarojini, whom Nehru called the nightingale
Mesmerized even the Brits with her poetic trail.

Bhagamati became Hyder Mahal in Qutub Shah’s palace,
Bhagyanagar became Hyderabad in a loving embrace,

Andhra and Telangana as twins have taken a rebirth
United, they’ll make Hyderabad a heaven on earth!


This poem was read on Monday 21 March 2016 at the multilingual poetic meet at Rabindra Bharati on the occasion of World Poetry Day organised by the Department of Language and Culture, Telengana on the theme of Hyderabad Vishwanagaram.


My heartfelt thanks goes to the Department of Language and Culture Telengana for inviting me and for promoting poetry on the occasion of World Poetry Day. While their unparalleled hospitality goes to prove the bonhomie of Hyderabad, the efficiency with which they had organized the multilingual poetry meet is laudable in every sense.


My special thanks goes to Elizabeth Kurian Mona for having helped me with the re-structuring of the poem. Without her effort, the poem wouldn't have had the look of a string of couplets. Thank you Mona.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

The last condolence



















Weapons are in pain
Listen to their dolorous language
Release them O Intelligence
from your helpless caprice
let them rest in peace
the last condolence in silence
with burning candles
could smile adieu to them

Monday, March 14, 2016

Off to work



















Roaring waves
A worker drinking tea.

She stays in the slum,
Beside the growing avant-garde mansion;
It’s soon going to touch the clouds,
Talk to the sky.

Quick
She has to leave for work, for her
Daily wage.



Image courtesy: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/8d/41/81/8d4181b4b13451b1d3322bb513f11642.jpg 

Warcide











I am war
I am finally writing a note:
Everybody is responsible for my death

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

A common man


Kitchen is burning
The man has eloped from the man
Inmates numbed
Sympathetic wind brings food-smells
Oozing from the neighbor's walls.

Blankness has severed engagement
Yet the onlooker life, waves cadence

Words of the past do not feed the present
Deeds of the yore cement the compulsive lent
Memories counting moments.

Love hasn’t left,
Lines do not speak of mediocrity
And hormones secrete affection.
Useless utensils lying on the table
Like archaic words
Stagnation is the only mobility
Static rail lines moving the train
From day to night and day again
A predictable stability.

All of this has made the man
A faltered equestrian
His inability to smile and talk
Overshadowed his work
An odd man out
Lying flat on the ground
A jelly fish
Without fulcrum
Gets no leverage from the field
Has no knees
No elbows
His shameless eyes track the rainbows
Calls the perpetually engaged, social horizon
To fetch his pot of gold
Lines lie, don’t connect
Sees faceless teeth everywhere
More of teeth
Clapping the performance
Of the eloped man, leaving the man.

Life, in rhythm gallops

Sunday, March 6, 2016

She has to go to work


In the end, she’d die
like every other lady.
But today, while making her Sunday lunch
with her comfortable, lazy hands
an indolent course that takes time,
she told she’d like to live in my lines.

Taking a picture is easier, I thought
a part of the shot.
But she! To be covered in lines,

How’d I write about the pounding of the heart
that lied on the ground on that first slow evening
drizzling on us facing the sky,
or about the sweaty hand that willed to write the story
of a prince and a princess,
or about the smiles that moved the brooks
but in time fell
as brown leaves in the history of pages.

Or
She wants me to write about the present moment?
She wants to die oh I see why.

Please remember I’d never want to go to work.
Women’s liberation, economic independence
Yes they’re important,
not for me.
For good or bad, I’d like to lean
withdraw money from the hidden wallet.

Then the evening gently drizzled I recall
as pleasant as a snowfall
but forever to freeze as a broken promise.

I see clouds stealing space in the sky,
it will soon rain.
Tomorrow, she has to go to work.

She never reads my lines
But she’d like to live in them, she said.

Listen

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Yearning



Yearning
I am only a yearning
Unable to take shape.

There is this Vishvriksha*
Growing with seasoned years
Waiting to be uprooted
Innocent defenders
Onlookers
Wonderers
Ignorant, attracted, inert

I am only a yearning
Yearning
To break open.


*Poison tree

Threads of thoughts


15th August

Independence day
Smiling urchins flock at the signal
to sell flags to car drivers

A writer writes of rose
smelling as sweet

Unforgiving history
Commemorates torture
Celebrates freedom

Labour

Old wrinkled man
pulling the thhela*
carrying the burden

*Wheelbarrow - a small cart with four wheels, two at the front and two supporting at the rear, used typically for carrying loads in building work or gardening.

Poverty

Poverty exists
To feed the rich
By design, for years
Despite words and tears

Urchins

Children starve

In unicef zones

Mystery

Ignorance is a safe zone
So peace is a mystery

Unnatural


Computer virus, weapons
Invented, marketed
In the honeyed world.

On the other hand
Anti-virus industry, firewalls
Talks on disarmament
Beehive.

Counter-productive relationships
between countries safeguarded,
Well-meaning persons intoxicated
like the occupied bees.

No stepping out
from safe zones
of expected behaviours.